


Vanish One by One

by KieraVenic



Series: The Halla and the Crow [4]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Angst, Canonical Character Death, Ellion shanks a table, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:16:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4057945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KieraVenic/pseuds/KieraVenic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One at a time they were slipping away from him. His parents, Tamlen, his clan, his friends, Marethari, and now his Wardens. His trip to Skyhold was meant to bring him answers, but sometimes what one learns is not always the answer that they seek. Farewell, brother. (AU to my Warden's canon)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vanish One by One

**Author's Note:**

> Despite not being the first to get posted, this was the first story I started with my Warden Mahariel. I had wanted to write a story about him being so angry that he started switching between languages while shouting. As I was writing though, I realized I did not exactly want people to think my Warden was just a ball of rage (Which he kinda is, really) so I wrote other stories about him and posted them first instead.
> 
> >__> Now I realize that my Warden kinda looks all timid and cuddly when really he’s a grump that is completely confused by Human society. So yes… Enjoy the rage. (Which turns into angst because well… I’m pretty sure I’m incapable of writing happy stories that aren’t humor.)
> 
> Last note, I swear. So this story is an AU of my Warden’s canon. In his canon Alistair was made King and my Inquisitor was Nehnvehnan Lavellan. For this story, however, Alistair was made a Warden and Taryn Lavellan is my Inquisitor.

The face of the Warden Commander was anything but pleased. Droves of curious eyes watched this strange new Elf in Warden’s colors as he rode in on a great white halla. They went unnoticed. The burning gaze of this particular Elf was focused on the stairs to the main hall, even as he passed it towards the stables.

It took more than a little coaxing for his mount to allow itself to be led away. Even with its time at Amaranthine, the creature held a hate for stables. The Commander supposed that was his fault. He had indulged his small herd’s love for open spaces and forests by mostly keeping them out at pasture. Human contact was not unusual for them, but that did not mean they enjoyed being enclosed. The presence of the Inquisitor’s own hart did at least something to soothe the creature that was nearly as ill-tempered as he was.

Assured that his mount was properly cared for, the Commander started for the keep. His fingers curled into fists. Words needed to be had.

The pack over his shoulder was full of unanswered missives and indignant requests. Upon entry to the keep, some servant or other held out a hand, offering to take his cloak and pack. Curtly, he refused. He was not here for pleasantries. The serving man took a step back, nervously. In his anger, the Commander felt some small pleasure at that. A distant part of him was aware that he was being rude, cruel even, and that he needed to calm down, but he was so _angry_.

A herald announced his presence and there was a rise in the din of conversation as many turned to stare at the long missing Hero of Fereldan. He cared naught for the attention.

“Ellion!”

A familiar cry rang out, and some of the tension in his brow eased, smoothing the creases there. He surprised himself by managing a smile, however small.

“Leliana. It has been a long time.” He held his hand out to her, but blinked in surprise as the red head threw her arms around him instead. After a moment, the affection was returned in kind, his smile turning softer, more genuine.

When she pulled back, Leliana gripped his upper arms, giving him a little shake. “You scared me! Do you know how long I was looking for you!? We had begun to think you were dead! Do not do that again. We thought perhaps Corypheus had gotten you. And look at you! You’ve tanned.”

“I did send a letter a few months ago, you know.” The look Leliana laid upon him made it clear that a letter was not enough in her opinion. The corners of his lips twitched a little higher.

“Fortunately, no. I was in the west, thus the tan. I was hoping to find a way to cure the calling. We had no idea about Corypheus, but it did not seem natural to me… The Calling coming to all of us at the same time.” Ellion shook his head with a frown, all mirth at seeing his friend gone. “There was… another I thought perhaps had their hand in this. I went to find them.”

The Bard cocked her head, studying him with keen eyes, hunting for information that would not be given. “And did you?”

Ellion shrugged. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way, I did not find the cure I was searching for.”

To her credit, Leliana looked genuinely disappointed. “I am sorry. No luck with that Mage? What was his name?”

“Avernus. There has been progress, but nothing complete. We can push back the Calling, but not stop it. His time is nearly up though. His health is finally failing past his abilities to keep at bay. That is not why I am here, however.” Pleasantries were nice, but unimportant. There would be time to catch up later. Right now, he needed a target for his anger, his questions.

“The Inquisitor, no doubt. We were quite surprised by your letter stating you were coming. Our Ambassador has been beside herself attempting to properly prepare.”

Ellion blinked at her, puzzled, one brow quirked upward. “Prepare? For what?”

His obvious confusion drew a laugh from his old friend. “For you! You do realize you’re important, don’t you?”

Nose crinkled, Ellion’s eyes darted away with discomfort before he looked back. “I do not need special treatment. I spent the past year sleeping on rocks and in the mud. I’m Dalish. We’re rather used to sleeping in the dirt and wagons.”

“That’s what I told her. I said to Josephine that you’d be more confused and uncomfortable by any pomp or special treatment, but she insisted. Try to enjoy it, for her sake at least.” The next look she sent him was far slyer. Her smile turned into a cat like grin. Ellion felt himself tense. She was up to something.

“Also, there is someone else here very anxious to see you.”

That could be any number of people. He had heard rumor that Morrigan was here even. “Oh?”

“Indeed. He is good at hiding it, but since your letter showed up, he’s been rather anxious to see his ‘amor’ again.”

Heat coursed through his veins as his heart raced. He knew exactly who was here. Behind him Ellion heard a laugh as he was instantly on the move. “Hold on! I didn’t even tell you where he was!”

An impatient glance was cast over his shoulder and met with a teasingly charming smile. There were shadows in her eyes, a bitter anger in her letters, but Ellion could still see the hints of the old playful Leliana in there.

With a touch she redirected him towards the gardens. His lip twitched upward. His lover’s adoration for city life had waned over the past eleven years. Ellion’s often insistence that they spend a great deal of their time together out in the wilds had given his partner a taste for fresher air, even if he still had an odd fondness for the smell of leather. Being constantly on the run had been no small help either.

Leliana nudged the door open and Ellion was already slipping past her, eyes searching. He needed this familiar warmth now. He did not trust himself to keep his temper in check. His lover could stop him before he did anything too damaging. The calm his partner brought him was desperately sought; needed.

He found his lover teasing a city Elf mage. The red headed she-Elf crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed, but that had never stopped him before.

“You might want to be saving that charm for someone else, Zevran,” Leliana called teasingly.

The charm on the Antivan’s face amplified as he turned towards Leliana. “Oh? And who migh—”

It was rare that any honest emotions were allowed through in public, but sometimes even a former Crow could be so caught off guard that things slipped through. Charm melted into frank surprise before it flicked to longing and was immediately shut down with the mask of his joy. Not that the joy was false, but perhaps exaggerated to hide more tender and private emotions.

“Mi amor.”

Minaeve rolled her eyes. “How quickly he forgets.”

But her sarcasm went ignored. In moments Zevran had vaulted the half wall between them and Ellion stepped forward to embrace him. He pressed his face against Zevran’s neck, taking in the familiar smells of his lover’s skin and hair.

Words were whispered in his ear. “You worried me, amor.”

“I know,” Ellion murmured. “That was not my intent.”

Teeth nipped at his ear and he shivered. “That will need to be discussed later.” Ellion doubted their discussion would have much to do with words, only a lot of lips and teeth.

Their tight embrace lasted only moments before they parted. The depths of their emotions were best left for a private moment when guards could be let down. Still, Ellion leaned in once more to quickly nudge noses in his age old gesture of affection. “I see you’ve managed to out run your pursuers again.”

“Indeed!” Zevran laughed. “They are getting lax.”

Leliana snorted. “Only after he killed one that was working for us an agent.”

“Two, technically,” Zevran corrected with a bright smile, “but I made up for it! Let it never be said I do not pay my debts.”

Ellion glanced at the Bard curiously. “The Inquisition hired Crows?”

“An alliance of mutual benefits. We had similar targets, they made an offer, we accepted. We needed, and still do, all the help we could get. Did not hurt to have them in good graces. The last thing we needed was someone else deciding to pay the Crows to come after the Inquisitor.”

He could not fault her for that. There was no official word about how they felt regarding the Inquisition.

“I imagine harboring a certain someone does you no favors, however,” Ellion observed. It had certainly not done him any. To be fair, the Crows had only started hunting the Warden Commander when one of the Amaranthine nobles had hired them to remove the ‘trouble making Elf’, but the Dalish knew that it would only have been a matter of time before he would have become a target for harboring his lover within the Amaranthine keep.

Still, Leliana hardly looked worried. “Valid. Zevran has taken to helping me. They’re… not pleased regarding that.”

The Antivan appeared utterly unbothered. His hands raised in a deceptively casual shrug. “There are many things they’re not pleased about. If their guild leader wishes to discuss it, I can speak with him. … Or is it a her this time? They’ve had so many of late I can’t remember.”

Leliana scoffed, crossing her arms. “That’s because you keep killing them.”

Falsely innocent eyes put on a look of mock hurt. “Kill? I would never. We simply met to discuss some things and they had an accident. It is not my fault they are so clumsy.”

“Says the man who stepped on the trap he was disarming…” Ellion muttered. He failed to stifle his smirk.

“That was one time.”

Leliana coughed. “Twenty three.” A teasing exaggeration.

“Accidents happen.”

“So it seems.” Affectionately, Ellion tugged at the braid of blonde hair draped over Zevran’s shoulder. “I see you’re still growing it out. Black dye?” His finger traced along the black streak that ran through the otherwise blonde braid.

“Figured it could balance out the ‘painting’ on my face. And yes. I thought perhaps I would give them an advantage of more hair to grab since the Crows seem to be doing so poorly of late. I thought it only fair; sporting, if you will.”

Ellion looked at him with amused disbelief. “Uh huh…” This certainly had nothing to do with the fact that Ellion admitted a fondness for longer hair; for running his fingers through it or pulling on it during moments of intimacy. Nope. Nothing at all.

The braid was given another gentle tug and golden eyes darkened with need.

The teasing was not unnoticed. Leliana slipped between them, nudging Ellion back towards the main hall. “Alright, you two. Not out here. I believe the Inquisitor is waiting for you, Commander.”

So odd, even eleven years later, hearing that title; particularly from an old friend.

Zevran gave a mocking bow. “Then I should leave you two to your meeting.”

“Wait,” Ellion blurted. His hand snapped out to grip Zevran’s bracer. The other Elf tipped his head curiously, a sharp gleam visible just beneath.

Leliana frowned. “What?”

“I want you to come with me.”

Zevran looked surprised by the request, but not put off. “Not sure I am the best source of knowledge or advice for Inquisition or Warden affairs, though I am charmed that you should think so.”

Equally unsure, Leliana glanced between them. “You sure?”

“Not advice. I’m…” The furrow was back. Ellion pinched the bridge of his nose. It felt a bit childish to be on the verge of what could only be called a tantrum. Still, the weight of his pack felt particularly heavy in this moment before the meeting.

“Ah,” a note of nothing but understanding. “I see.” A hand rose up to come around the back of his neck. Skilled fingers found knots there, working them lose with practiced ease.

A heavy sigh escaped Ellion. He should not need this. Should not need someone else to be his crutch for control he could not seem to find. There was just so much to think on, to do, all with overwhelming urgency and so many blanks to questions that needed an answer _now_.

“Lead on then, I would be delighted to offer what ‘advice’ I can.” Light of tone. It still astonished Ellion how easily they could read into one another and play the parts needed. His hand reached back to squeeze the one still at the nape of his neck in gratitude.

If Leliana understood the truth of why Ellion desired Zevran to come with them, she did not say. She played a part of ignorance for their sake.

The pack on his shoulder was adjusted as they strode quickly down the main hall of the keep towards the War Room. Ellion keenly felt every eye on him as nobles, commoners, and servants alike followed him with rapt attention. Rumors, opinions, and stories were whispered amongst themselves conspiratorially.

A warm calloused hand brushed against his and he released the breath he was holding. A pity his tension could not release its grasp so easily. As they approached the half open door, it only grew.

Leliana entered first, announcing him.

Ellion took a deep breath and with a dramatic gesture of politeness from Zevran, along with a teasing smile and a wink, Ellion stepped inside. “Ass,” he muttered as he passed. He barely caught Zevran’s chuckle behind him.

Five figures rose from their seats, all bowing in some form or another. The Antivan woman in the bright dress curtsied. Leliana took her place on the other side of the blonde human in the red uniform.

It was the Seeker, who glanced at Leliana, that first asked, “The Crow?”

“Ex,” Zevran corrected all smiles. It did nothing to improve the frown on the Seeker’s face.

“He is here at my request,” Ellion broke in.

Immediately, the dark haired human woman bowed her head in deference. “My pardon, then.”

A reprimanding look was cast her way by the Elven woman that stood at the head of the table. By her dress, Ellion suspected she was Dalish and yet… her face was clear of any Vallaslin. There was a subtle hint of curiosity in the tip of his head as he took her in. He could have sworn he had heard she was Dalish. So far as he knew, there was no way to remove Vallaslin. Was there a clan that did not practice it? They were so distant from one another now… Honestly there was no way to know. He pushed away the sadness the thought brought. The troubles of the People were for another time.

The smile on her face was genuine. “Welcome, Warden Commander, to Skyhold, the base of the Inquisition. I am pleased to see you are well. Many were worried something had happened.”

At the Antivan woman’s gesture, Ellion took a seat at the opposite end of the table from the Inquisitor. His pack was settled beside his chair, his fingers twitching towards it. Pleasantries first; he could dump out its contents later.

“I wouldn’t say that something hadn’t happened, but I am alive, despite everyone’s apparent fears.”

“You were rather quiet,” Leliana chided.

Ellion glanced at her. “When am I not? What I was doing was not for discussion.” At his request, Zevran had kept his lips sealed after the two of them were forced to part near the end of Ellion’s search.

His tease did little to soften the declination. The faintest purse of her lips, but Leliana said nothing.

With him seated, the others followed, barring the Inquisitor. Inquisitor opposite of him, her three, what he assumed were advisors, were seated to his right. On the left, were two others, also assumed advisors on his part. The Seeker and a rather heavy set man, face covered in dark facial hair. Zevran sat closest to him. Thankfully the other Elf wisely had decided now was not the time to try and distract Ellion with a game of footsie under the table. That had made many a meeting or social gathering rather awkward, if not frustratingly entertaining.

The slight Inquisitor dipped her head. “I am Taryn Lavellan. To my left is Leliana, my Spy Master, whom I believe you’re already quite familiar with.”

Ellion smiled, albeit small. “Quite.” He mouthed the word ‘nugs’ and the Bard suppressed a giggle.

“Beside her is Commander Cullen Rutherford, my military advisor. Then my Ambassador, Lady Josephine Montilyet.”

Politely, Ellion dipped his head to them, murmuring niceties in Elvish purposefully. None appeared put off and he felt silently pleased. It seemed they respected their Elven Inquisitor despite their difference in culture. A good sign.

It was Zevran who broke in next with a smile and a quick flutter of Antivan. Ellion blinked, recognizing almost none of the words. The Ambassador laughed and responded in kind. Zevran looked mightily pleased, relaxing further into his chair. The look Ellion gave him was questioning, but Zevran only blinked at him, offering nothing. The Warden snorted softly. It figured.

“It is pleasing to see you well, Zevran. Thank you again for your work with Leliana.”

“Of course, my dear. Anything for a pair of such lovely ladies.”

It was a credit to how long he must have been staying here that hardly anyone at the table seemed shocked or put off. The Inquisitor simply smiled, Cullen frowning as the Seeker snorted.

“In the middle to the right is Black—”

“Thom,” the man cut in. “Thom Rainier.”

Inquisitor Lavellan looked mildly surprised, and yet, she appeared pleased. There was an impression of encouragement on her face.

He rose from his chair, dipping low in a bow of respect. “I had requested to be here, when I heard that you were coming, Warden Commander. I felt it best that I be a part of the discussion and also there are a few things I had wanted to speak with you regarding.”

Not an uncommon thing to hear. Ellion resisted the urge to shut his eyes or rub his forehead. Another thing to add to his list of things to do. Everyone seemed to need a portion of his time these days. Always too much to do. He settled for simply nodding and Rainier reseated himself.

“Lastly, Seeker Cassandra Pentaghast. She had been of great aid to me in dealing with the Chantry.”

Ellion could only imagine the headache that was. Thankfully something he had managed to avoid, mostly. There were none too few former Templars or Mages that had come to Amaranthine when the civil war between them had broken out. The Chantry had been less than happy when he had taken them in. Their letters of complaint were thrown into his fireplace.

Again, niceties were said and heads were nodded with respect. Well practiced gestures that were hollow in the end.

Once the Inquisitor had seated herself, her smile slipped into serious earnestness. “You had expressed concerns that you wanted to discuss with us in your letter.”

‘Concerns’ was putting it, perhaps, lightly. His Seneschal had insisted on being the one to write the letter to the Inquisition. Between Ellion’s own atrocious hand writing and grammar, even eleven years of practice could not totally save over twenty of illiteracy, and his increasingly famous temper, Ellion’s initial letter had not been pleasant to look at or read.

He took in a deep breath and released it. So it began.

“I did. First, and I suppose one of the more easy to address, we have been receiving a large number of complaints from nobility across Thedas to Amaranthine. Their primary subject being the misuse of the Warden treaties.”

The faintest of winces from the Inquisitor did not go unnoticed. Guilt, then. That was mildly encouraging. It was, however, her ambassador that spoke up.

“Truly? Since the incident in Orlais we have been handling all of the complaints submitted and making proper recompense to all affected parties.” Troubled, she shuffled through a number of her papers, among some hefty sheaves.

Ellion looked at her flatly. His fingers curled into the fabric of his bulging pack. The oiled leather was lifted above the table and upturned. Parchment of all kinds was dumped into a literal pile on the table. Scrolls, folded notes, carefully sealed (and now broken) letters, and even the more expensive and fancy envelopes all tumbled out. A little bitter and perhaps sarcastic, Ellion slowly swung his arm over to drop his pack back onto the floor. Dramatic, and petty of him, but it felt good.

_You should not indulge your anger. This is why you can never stay calm. You’re an adult. Act like it._

Faces that had been missing for months now came to the front of his thoughts and his fingers curled into the thick weave of his pants.

_I’m angry for them, because they can’t be._

_You don’t know that._

Forcibly, he shut down his thoughts, focusing on the faces around him instead of those in his memories. His eyes swung back to the Inquisitor. “You used Warden treaties.”

To her credit, Inquisitor Lavellan met his gaze levelly. “I did. At the time we were hard pressed to handle a crisis and we had to confront the forces at Adamant. I am sure you are aware of the demon army they were attempting to create.”

Oh, he was well aware. Well aware and furious. Also sick with fear. He had over a dozen missing Wardens. Had the two mages among them committed heinous acts? Were his warriors, rangers, and rogues among those bled dry to feed the growing army of demons?

_Not now. Not now._

His fingers curled even tighter. He could feel the fabric creak in his grip, his nails digging into his flesh even through the cloth.

“You used Warden treaties when you are, in fact, not Wardens.” Blunt. Short. To the point. Keep focused on the topic and do not let thoughts stray to more worrying things. Do not think on fears.

Beneath the table, he felt fingers brush his knee; A silent reminder to breathe. When had he started holding it? He took great effort to let the breath out slowly, quietly. No need to give them the idea that he was indulging in more dramatics.

“Be that as it may,” Cullen spoke up, “the threat that we were dealing with at the time _were_ the Wardens. As the Wardens were the ones causing the dilemma and we were the only ones able to handle the situation, we did what we had and needed to do at the time with what we had.”

While his tone was polite still, obvious irritation bled into the Templar’s voice. It was an odd comfort to Ellion to know he was not the only one attempting to keep more fiery words at bay.

“If my history is correct, the treaties were created to unite differing peoples in order to fight a common enemy that is a threat to all.”

It took incredible effort not to remark that the Templar’s history was lacking details. Being rude would get him nowhere.

_Don’t give into your anger._

Sitting straighter, Ellion met the Templar’s eyes, unblinking. “The treaties were created to fight the _Blight_ and _Darkspawn_. They were created for the _Wardens_ to use. There is a rhyme and a reason to their creation and when and how they are used. They are not to simply be thrown out whenever resources are needed.”

Face twisted in displeasure for the first time since the start of the meeting, the Inquisitor broke in. “The treaties were not used as a grab for resources out of greed. The world was in danger and we needed to work with what little we had. A danger started by the Wardens themselves.”

She was still gentle in tone, even in the wake of his biting attitude.

Deep. Breathe deep. It escaped him in a tired sigh, some of his bite ebbing with it. “I understand that the Inquisition was in a poor place. Between the doubts of nobility and the outcry of the Chantry I can imagine that procuring resources and forces was no easy task. The problem is the use of the treaties has severely undermined their validity to the point of near uselessness.”

One of the letters was picked up and lightly tossed towards the center of the table. “The nobility made sure to note, many times, in their messages that as the Inquisition has possession of some of the treaties and that as they were ‘posing as a branch of the Wardens’, claiming rights as they had Wardens in their ranks, that the treaties are now void as they cannot be trusted.”

Josephine was quick to slip the letter her way. Dark eyes darted over the elegantly scrawled words, making quick work of tricky wording and sugary pleasantries meant to hide sharper meanings.

“Frankly, the greater deal of the damage in regards to trust of the Wardens was committed by the Wardens themselves,” Cassandra argued. “It was the Wardens who were behind their own attempts to create a demon army at the fortress of Adamant. Corypheus may have tricked and scared them, but the choice to commit blood magic and raise a demon army was still their own, even if it was suggested to them by another. It was made clear to us that they were not under effects of mind control when they agreed.”

To use Corypheus and his minions would be just an excuse, but it still hung at the tip of Ellion’s tongue. He swallowed it. The guilt of Adamant was theirs alone. It was the Wardens who had given into fear.

“The events of Adamant were damning, yes, but that could have been controlled politically. The Wardens at Adamant were a sole branch that had gone bad. A solitary one. Weisshaupt, the Anderfels, and Amaranthine had stayed out of involvement.”

Hesitant to speak against a friend, regret softened Leliana’s words. “There were Amaranthine Wardens at Adamant, according to my sources.”

There was only so long that Leliana could stay uninvolved. It stung, but Ellion met her eyes with understanding. This was her duty; it was what she lived to do now. He could understand duty.

Exhausted, Ellion leaned onto his elbow, rubbing at his temple. “Yes and no. That was unofficial. Adamant had sent an order, issued a call, for all Wardens to come to the fortress, but I told my men to belay the order. From what I know, the branch in the Anderfels did the same. Theoretically only Weisshaupt has the right to call us all together in such a manner.”

The pounding in his head made his vision pulse. The tips of his fingers dug into his temple harder. “I was not at Adamant when the request order arrived. I had gone to the west months prior in an attempt to find the source, and hopefully a cure, for the Calling.”

“You did not believe it to be natural,” Cassandra remarked.

“Of course not. It is true that the Calling happens at varying times for every Warden, so it is possible a Warden ten years younger may receive their Calling around the same moment as a senior Warden, but the fact that all three dozen of my men had it at the exact same moment?” Ellion shook his head with disbelief. “No… That did not feel right at all to me. In that same instant that I heard it, every eye had turned to me. Something was wrong; that much was clear, at the least.”

A sharp sting told him that he had broken the skin on his temple. His fingers curled, scratching the broken skin. Pain; a focus point.

“My seneschal, had sent word to me regarding the orders from our Orlesian forces that demanded we join them at Adamant. He had told no one beyond Warden-Constable Nathaniel, my second, regarding the situation. That was when I had told Nathaniel to hold off, not to tell anyone yet, but Orlais is an impatient nation… When they sent a more formal messenger instead of a hawk, it was not long for word to circle.”

The need to protect, to defend was strong. These people had been his own for years, some for a decade. They were family. He straightened, drawing his hand away from his face, eyes earnest.

“You have to understand, my Constable had issued my orders for my men to remain at Amaranthine, but they were afraid. For the Calling to manifest for all of us at the same time… Nothing like that had ever happened before, and this early? Every Warden experiences a different life span, but none of my men have been Wardens for longer than eleven years, twelve for myself. For the Calling to occur so soon and in so many was unheard of. They obeyed Adamant’s orders because they felt there was no other choice at that point.”

To her credit, Seeker Cassandra did not appear unsympathetic, but her expression was still hard. “With all due respect, Warden Commander, the fact remains that Amaranthine Wardens _were_ still at Adamant. With you gone we were unsure of what to do in this situation and how involved you were.”

The furrow in his brow worried deeper with anger. “For all purposes Warden-Constable Nathaniel Howe was Warden Commander in my absence. Our records indicate that outside of your initial search for me, no attempt was made to contact me or my second in command at Amaranthine while I was away. The least the Inquisition could have done was contact the Warden-Constable who could have then reached out to me.”

So far as he had seen, there had not even been an attempt. To run purely on assumption made fools of them all. The Inquisition had learned that when the nobility bit back after the truth was revealed. Months later the nobility were still snapping at heels, only now they were his for something he had had no control of.

His growing temper was not unnoticed. Josephine dipped her head, ever polite and even toned.

“This was a misstep on our part, Commander Mahariel. There should have been steps taken to appropriately contact the Fortress of Amaranthine,” she admitted politely. Her next words were less enamoring. “What has been done at this point, however, has become a bit moot. With Adamant turned and Amaranthine forces at their side, we were forced to work under the assumption that Weisshaupt also had involvement.”

A neat dodge, but one that was countered by another of his grievances and great concerns. “Why, then, if Weisshaupt was suspect, did you send the banished Wardens to them?”

“That was my doing,” the Inquisitor broke in. “It was a choice made quickly, I will admit. It was made clear that Corypheus was the source of the false Calling. I had considered taking the orphaned Wardens in under the Inquisition, but if I had they would have been a liability. There was no way to know if Corypheus would be able to manipulate them again. I did not want to banish them necessarily, but I had done it to make sure that under no uncertain circumstances they were to put distance between themselves and Corypheus. I had hoped the distance would make any new false Calling easier to resist.”

Bitterness curled Ellion’s lips into a cold smile. “Distance does nothing.”

Disappointment and guilt flashed over the Inquisitors face. She had an honest heart. It was this that kept his anger from turning into the more poisonous hate.

Loyalty drew the Inquisitor’s own Commander to her defense. His own expression had formed into a scowl. “This is not information that the Inquisition could have known. The Wardens keep their secrets close. Regardless of what was done, to take in the Wardens while fighting Corypheus would have been a severe liability.”

“That, I will grant you, certainly,” Ellion sighed. “The fact that they had committed themselves to blood magic…” His head shook in disgust.

What had Warden Commander Clarel been thinking? He could understand her fear, the urge to protect those within one’s charge, but to allow them to slaughter one another in rituals? A shudder was repressed.

“This banishment… You banished all of southern Wardens.”

Lavellan nodded. “I did.”

“You realize that includes Amaranthine.”

Her green eyes did not waver from his own. “I do.”

His jaw shifted. “I have had nobles up my ass about the fact that Amaranthine has not yet cleared out. Worse, they have leaked information regarding the Joining.”

The Inquisitor’s puzzlement was clear. Unsure, she glanced towards her Advisors. “A leak?”

“More than one noble has made it known that they’d received information regarding the nature of our Joining from ‘Inquisition contacts’,” Ellion explained, face grim. “They are aware that every Warden bears the Taint of the Blight. They have been hard pressing us to leave in fear that we are merely servants of the Archdemons. Or worse, they’ve been calling for the Queen to have us executed.”

Most curiously, Ellion noted it was Rainier, the most quiet of the group that looked the most alarmed by the news. There was a faint flash of teeth as the Inquisitor started to worry at her lip before she stopped herself.

Her concern was mirrored in her Ambassador. “I had known of this, but had only been made aware of it recently. I will admit that… It was not entirely high up on the list of things I have needed to discuss with the Inquisitor. It was not a priority for the Inquisition at the time. This was a matter best left for Queen Anora to handle.”

Ellion’s face crumpled with anger. “You do realize that without noble support that means no supplies. That means no food, blankets, clothing, firewood. My men have been holding out on what little we have left in our stores. We’ve managed to hunt, but only a little. The nobility dislike us even leaving the Fortress. Winter will be upon us soon and what little our gardens can give us will be gone.” And that would be on top of the biting cold of Ferelden winters and the constant snow pushed in from the Amaranthian sea.

“The leak was not unnoticed,” Leliana took over. “I have been working on that personally as I am aware of the danger that that information can pose to the Wardens if it becomes wide spread knowledge. But, by the time I was aware that there might be an issue, the leak had already occurred. Stopping the spread has been difficult, though there are some I have been able to quiet. I have only been able to slow the spread it seems, not stop it.”

Dubiously, Cullen mouthed the word ‘quiet’. No one in this room was unfamiliar with Leliana’s methods. Judging by the darkness in her eyes, Ellion had a feeling the Bard had only grown more ruthless in the past eleven years. It was troubling to see her changed in this way, but a matter for another time.

“So far, I have heard no word from Weisshaupt,” he sighed out. “No official statement has been made whether or not we are to comply with the banishment fully. Have they sent word to you?”

There was no mistaking the ginger way that Josephine shifted in her chair. “Technically, the banishment was for all southern Wardens. You yourself pointed out that that would include Amaranthine. It would stand that then all southern holdings should comply with the banishment.”

Darkness hedged Ellion’s vision. It reflected coldly in his eyes as he leveled a look upon the Inquisition members.

“Let it be known, that I respect the Inquisition. You handled a matter where all others failed and handled it successfully. You’ve saved countless lives. However, the Inquisitor is neither the First Warden nor the Queen of Fereldan. Queen Anora and the First Warden are the _only_ beings in Thedas that have the say of whether or not I am the continued Arl of Amaranthine.” Flat toned and unapologetic. A lesson long learned from his Seneschal when he had first become Commander eleven years prior.

_“You must not show weakness. Any waver in tone, expression, or word choice can be grounds for them to fight back, to undermine you. They will search for every weak point and they will exploit them. If you are to keep command, if we are to survive, you must not falter.”_

A lesson he had taken in both diplomacy and in battle. This meeting, he supposed, could qualify as both. He was fighting for his men. To relent would cast them into the unknown. They were unnerved and frightened as it was, demoralized by former allies and supporters, betrayed by their own, and on the brink of entering starvation. He would not let them lose what little they had left. If a roof over their head was all he had left to give, then he would hold onto it with all he had.

It was, perhaps surprisingly, Rainier that spoke up. He carefully brought them away from the dangerous line that Ellion had drawn, back to their earlier debate of Weisshaupt.

“I don’t think there has been word. What about what Warden Alistair had said? Hadn’t he mentioned that Weisshaupt had been acting oddly even before the battle at Adamant?”

 _Alistair_. Ellion’s heart leapt. None of his letters to his old friend had been returned. Yet another point on a long list of anxieties and worries that had gnawed a hole in his belly until his abdomen burned and he lost all urge to eat. Valenna had tutted to him about the risk of ulcers in his last exam if he did not calm down and start looking after himself again.

But the tension in his gut only drew tighter.

Near instantaneously, Leliana straightened in her chair, expression alarmed and eyes sharp as she stared down Blackwall. Even as she did this, Zevran gave a solitary sharp shake of his head.

Sickness rose in his throat. Thunderous, his eyes moved from one troubled face to the next. “What happened?”

The wary way Zevran glanced at him sent bolts of pain through his belly.

Silence stretched and a growl rumbled low in his throat, patience at an end. “What happened to Alistair? Where is he?”

The Inquisitor was the one to break the silence at last. “The Champion connected us with Warden Alistair. He had information regarding the missing Wardens. It was Alistair that told us about the Calling and the Joining.”

That answered at least who had leaked the information Warden side. Ellion trusted Alistair’s judgment on necessary breaks in protocol. If he had felt the need to share it, than Ellion believed in him.

“After it was discovered what was happening at Adamant, Warden Alistair insisted that he join us. He hoped to convince the Wardens there to stand down instead of forcing a fight. A battle took place, but with his help we were able to stop some bloodshed and encourage several smaller groups of Wardens to a truce.” The words were halting, hesitant.

What comfort and fondness he should have felt at hearing of his old friend’s antics and courage failed as he took in the Inquisitors tone of voice.

“Corypheus sent his dragon after us. The creature wrecked the ramparts and sent us plummeting. I… I panicked, admittedly. I am not sure how I did it, but with the anchor I was able to tear a hole in the veil and brought myself and those near me into the Fade, the Champion and Warden included.” As if trying to soothe an ache, Inquisitor Lavellan rubbed slowly at her left hand. The skin about her eyes crinkled, wincing from phantom pains.

“In the Fade we had to hunt down an enormous Terror Demon, the Nightmare. Corypheus had been using the Wardens to try and create a tear large enough to bring the Nightmare into our world. A kindly Spirit within the Fade helped us to get to the Nightmare to fight it, in order to get past the Nightmare and get out through the tear it had formed… but in order to get past it, someone had to stay… to distract it…”

_Someone had to stay._

His mouth was dry and bitter.

_Someone had to stay._

“Both Hawke and Alistair offered to stay behind. Neither would relent… so I had to make a choice.” Her voice was soft, apologetic, but strong. She was sorry a choice had to happen, but not that she had made it.

In any other circumstance, he would have approved of her strength to stand up for her decisions.

But not this time.

For a length of time, he said nothing. His mind twisted in circles, attempting to find some glimmer of hope. He scoured his miserably small knowledge of the Fade for a chance that this could be fixed and came back with nothing. Ellion was unaware of the worried eyes that watched him all around the table or the hand that had lain upon his knee. Leliana called his name softly. It was a while before he reacted.

“Left…? In the Fade?”

Reluctant affirmatives were given all around the war table.

He could not take it. Bile burned up his throat and curdled bitter, metallic, and sour on his tongue. He swallowed it back and shut his eyes.

His voice was deceptively soft. “You are telling me… that you took Warden treaties… from our holds, without asking. You then misused these treaties, claiming the right as you contained Warden forces, when you do not. You failed to even reach out to us at Amaranthine or Weisshaupt when there was a problem with Adamant.”

Cassandra broke in, her scowl softer with worry in light of the strange way Ellion had begun to speak. “Now wait a minute, we had attempted to—”

But louder, Ellion continued, his voice steadily beginning to grow in volume. “Not only did you fail to properly contact us when using the treaties that you _stole from our strongholds_ , but you failed to contact us when attempting to decide the fate of our people.”

“We had no idea that your other strongholds were not compromised!” Cullen cut in.

Whatever reaction the Commander of the Inquisition had expected, it had not been what happened. Faster than they could react to, Ellion drew one of his knives and slammed it deep into the worn wood of the table.

“ _YOU DID NOT EVEN TRY TO FIND OUT!_ ” Ellion roared.

Around the table, people started, sounds of alarm catching in their throats or being expelled in oaths of shock.

“You exiled them to a fortress you believed to be compromised without even checking!? Without trying to contact me about my own men who had gone missing? You were given the information about the Joining, about the Calling, with _explicit trust that you would keep this information secret and you **leaked** it!_ ”

Without warning, the words being shouted began to switch between languages. At first rarely and then with nearly every sentence.

“The nobles now want to have my men and women, _who are innocent_ , put to death due to your leak! These men and women who protect them from more than Darkspawn, but from Bandits! Who help them shore up their homes when the weather goes badly!”

Hands smacked down onto the table and Ellion was only half aware that he had shoved back from his chair, rising to his feet. Beside him, Zevran pushed back in his chair, hovering on the edge of his seat, watching intently. No one else dared to speak since the knife had been drawn, unsure of what the Warden Commander would do. The fact that Cassandra had drawn her arm up in front of the Inquisitor did not register to Ellion.

“I’ve sent letter after letter to Weisshaupt! I have no idea how many of my people died at Adamant! How many were slaughtered in their rituals! The First Warden gives no replies and not even my own people will write back! My men at Amaranthine are bordering on starvation as all of the surrounding Arl will not send supplies! _And you left him to die!?_ ”

Around the table people stared in varying states of worry, confusion, and alarm. They had stopped following several sentences back as the Warden’s rant had switched languages from the common tongue, to Elvish, to Antivan, and back again. What words that were caught and understood sounded as though the Warden Commander was still shouting about his missing people, but he began to switch so rapidly between the languages that no one could quite make heads or tails of exactly what was being said.

Common, Elvish, then common again, before bits of broken Antivan slipped in and then into Elvish.

Zevran was out of his seat now. A foot nudged aside Ellion’s chair and one wrist was taken into the rogues grip. Hardly stopping in his jumbled rant, Ellion turned to glare daggers at his lover, but Zevran was undeterred. He slipped himself between the table and Ellion, gripping the archer’s other wrist when Ellion snapped his hand up to push Zevran away.

Both wrists caught, Ellion growled lowly in Elvish, “What are you doing? Move.”

Zevran leant in, attempting to nudge noses, a reminder of affection, but Ellion jerked away. Quietly, Zevran began to utter in Antivan. “Breathe, love. Slowly.”

The tendons in Ellion’s throat, arms, wrists, hands, everything, were so tight from the strain of his entire body that they bulged from his skin. Hands released him and his own instantly snapped to Zevran’s chest, curling into the black fabric of his clothes. Slowly, Zevran rubbed his arms, leaning in to murmur in his ear.

“Relax. You need to relax. Breathe. Stop holding your breath.”

The air in his lungs left him, swift and shaking and sucked back in too sharply. His vision popped and fizzled, his head light. He was distantly aware he was hyperventilating. Then it occurred to him that he was being maneuvered back. Heels attempted to dig in, but failed. Frustration, distress, ripped at the back of his throat that was sore and tender.

“Come on. Let’s go out, come with me.”

“I do—” the words were near gasps. Was he having a panic attack? His limbs were taunt, but unresponsive to his mental screams to just _move_.

At some point they entered a warmly colored study and then were down a dark side hall by a set of stairs. When awareness came back to him, Ellion attempted to jerk away, but Zevran did not release the grip on his upper arms. Ellion found himself back against the wall, Zevran pressed against his front; a familiar position, but not in such circumstances.

Angrily he hissed. He did not want to be held, restrained, he wanted to scream out his frustrations, his fears, and to just _run._ Get out, get away, get _free_ from everything that had gone so horribly wrong in the past several months.

He pressed, struggled, pulled, anything to try and break his lover’s grip so that he could get away, but Zevran refused to be moved. That same voice still whispered gentle words in his ear, attempting to calm the panic, the rage ( _fear_ ), that raced in his veins.

“Stop,” Zevran murmured.

“I can’t. I can’t.”

“Yes you can. You’re breathing too fast.”

“ _They sent them away to die. They sent_ him _away to die_.”

Lips brushed along his jaw. “You don’t know that, amor.”

The laughter that tore out of him was hysterical, bitter. He was aware that he has started shaking, liquid heat slipping down his cheek. Laughter fading to breaths that whistled high and he dropped his head, pressing his face against the crook of Zevran’s neck.

The press of his hands weakened, fingers curling to pull Zevran closer. The Antivan allowed himself to be maneuvered, pressed flat against his shorter lover. His thigh pressed between Ellion’s so their hips were flush together, not in effort to arouse, but simply to connect; the comfort of simple touch. Deft fingers plucked his hair tie loose and carded through the blond strands. The methodical gesture worked to soothe both parties as slowly Ellion’s shaking began to weaken and Zevran allowed some of his tension to ease with it.

“They were my responsibility.” His voice was soft, hot and broken against Zevran’s skin. “I was their Commander and it was my duty to protect them. I _failed_ them.”

Zevran’s head turned, jaw brushing against Ellion’s ear. “This is not your clan, amor. You are not their Keeper.”

The force of Ellion’s bitter scoff rocked him in his lover’s arms. “Isn’t it? It is the duty of the Warden Commander to keep their men and women clothed, fed, of decent moral, and to keep them safe from unnecessary harms and threats, within the limit of their positions.”

Enough to get a better look at his lover’s face, Zevran pulled back. Despite Ellion’s effort to avoid it, Zevran gripped his chin, redirecting Ellion’s averted eyes to him. “They are soldiers, not wards.”

“And so were the hunters of my clan! But that did not make it any less the Keepers job to safeguard them. Yes, we had to scout, to guard, to fight, but it was her duty not to place us in harm’s way if it was not necessary. What happened at Adamant was not necessary!”

Lips pursed, Zevran squeezed Ellion’s jaw, gently. “Adamant was not your doing.”

“No, but I should not have left them. They were scared, frightened, by some unknown threat and I failed to keep them from it.” The heat in his voice waned, and then died. “I abandoned them when they needed me.”

Zevran shook his head, but Ellion had already shut his eyes against it. “I failed my family, again. I failed Alistair,” he whispered.

With a weary sigh, the Antivan released Ellion’s jaw, pulling them back together again. For an indefinite length of time, they remained in the shadowed and empty hall. Zevran was grateful that it appeared to be a little used access point. Once a servant of the keep had passed, but after a glance down the hall, had quickly hurried on.

The fate of the Sabrae clan over the years had been a festering weight on the Dalish Elf’s shoulders. Nothing Zevran had said, or could say, had ever changed it. What joy Ellion had when Anora had granted lands for the Dalish to live on again, had been short lived when he discovered that his clan had become stranded. Food, goods, clothes? That, Ellion could provide, though limited as the Wardens were struggling in those early days, but the halla they desperately needed to get away from the cursed mountain, he could not.

Then, slowly, their numbers had begun to dwindle. Letters from Marethari lamenting Merrill’s departure and then the slow bleed of population as their hunters began to succumb to the harsh environment of the mountains. The stabilization of Amaranthine had allowed Ellion to ebb their failing resources by making up for food and materials lost with their hunters, but there was only so much food could do.

Then came a tear stained letter from Merrill. Marethari had been killed.

It was perhaps the only other time Zevran had seen Ellion as angry as he had seen him today. Zevran had only arrived at Amaranthine two days after the letter’s arrival, but the second he had set foot within the keep, Ellion’s Seneschal and Nathaniel were on him.

“You need to talk to him. _Now_.”

Considering that neither the Seneschal nor Nathaniel were overly fond of him, it had been both an amusing, yet incredibly unnerving event. At least until he made for his lover. He had heard the screaming before he had even entered the final hallway to the Commander’s rooms.

Ellion’s room had been decimated by his grief. Most of his furniture had been broken, or liberally scarred by his blades, in some form or another. The blades themselves had become so notched as to then be useless. The Warden had screamed himself literally bloody, every shout of rage and grief drawing bloody coughs as he torn his throat with their force.

“ _I told her not to touch that damned mirror! Just like I told Tamlen! Why!?_ ”

What unnerved Zevran most were the claw marks on Ellion’s forearms and face, the blood beneath his nails. Attempts to strip away tears, grief, _guilt_. The guilt of having left them; of not dropping everything and running to their side; of not forcibly pulling Tamlen back; of not talking Merrill down sooner.

Marethari had been like a second mother to the hunter. Where Ashalla had fed and clothed the orphaned child, Marethari had taught and healed. Ellion had told Zevran of Marethari’s particular fondness for him, her time as his father’s student creating a bond between them. He had spent hours with her, when the other children had gone back to their families, devouring stories of his father from her memories with eager loneliness, hoping for some minute connection to the family he would never meet.

And then she was gone. No more lovingly written letters or teasing notes and silly riddles traded between them when work at the keep was slow. A mother lost.

And now too, Ellion had lost a brother.

Zevran allowed his own grief at the thought to burn his throat. Alistair had been a constant presence coming and going from Amaranthine; fond of the road where he could meet new faces and spread the good word for the Wardens. Whenever his sunny personality was not at the keep, he had kept up a steady stream of letters, scolding Ellion for not working harder on his poor writing. The formerly illiterate Elf always scowled at his letters, but there was no mistaking the amused and challenging gleam in his eyes as he dragged over a piece of parchment to reply to the pestering Human.

Initially rocky, Alistair and Zevran’s friendship had warmed considerably when the Human realized that Zevran intended to stay, that Ellion was not simply a pleasant way to pass their year long journey to stop the Blight. Most surprising, had been when Alistair approached him to give his blessing to the pair.

“… I’m sorry?” The Antivan blinked. It was rare that he was at a loss for words. This whole ‘love for joy and romance and not simply physical pleasure’ thing was still new and awkward for him, if not a pleasant surprise.

“I said, I’m happy for you two and I wish you well.”

“You sound as though I am dying. My friend, if the Crows offered you a lovely lady, I assure you they are most probably lying. Their women… leave something to be desired. Pretty to look at, perhaps, but on the inside…” He wavered his hand and Alistair flushed. “Also, some carry diseases.”

“No one promised me women!”

“No virgins then? That’s a pity. Gold is not bad though. A much more stable reward for a contract, certainly. Though, you are a virgin are you not? If they promised you a virgin, you should be careful they don’t try to turn the phrasing to mean you.”

“They didn’t promi—Virgins? Really? And hey! How did you know I was a v—I said nothing. You heard nothing. Don’t you _dare_ talk to Oghren about this.”

Zevran had flashed a smile. “Me? Tell the Dwarf? I’d never.”

Alistair did not believe him.

They had grown close in their own familiar way. A number of times Alistair had returned to the keep to find a naked, or mostly naked, Zevran lounging on his bed. “Welcome home, my dear friend!”

It was entirely worth the wait to watch Alistair turn the shade of a beet and flee from the room. When he had found out about the repeated incidents, far from stopping the antics, Ellion had only encouraged him, making a point to tell Zevran when Alistair would be visiting next. Alistair had thrown up his hands when he realized the pair was in on embarrassing him together.

 _Someone had to stay_.

Oh how his heart had burned when he had learned the truth. His own grief had been vented through wine and the destruction of a number of training dummies, his blades spilling their contents in the courtyard. In his mind he had imagined the demon’s guts splattering to the cobble stones, but in the end his eyes saw only straw.

Another of their strange little family had been lost.

The shaking had finally come to a stop and cheeks were drying. Exhausted and deflated, Ellion leaned against him. An eye within the storm. If he wanted to get Ellion away from others, give him room to grieve, now would be the best time.

“Come,” he murmured before he stepped back.

Resistant at first, Ellion caved when Zevran took his hand and tugged. The fingers in his hold trembled and Zevran tightened his grip.

The moment he had arrived at Skyhold, Zevran had scouted and scoped the place out. Expertly he navigated side corridors and servants passages that he doubted most were even aware of. The room that the Ambassador had prepared for the Commander was out of the question. While she had done a fine job making sure that it was comfortable, it was void of anything familiar; personally cold. For all his barred teeth and attempts to push away contact, what Ellion needed was the warmth of a space that held intimacy.

Not a word was said the entire trip on Ellion’s part. Zevran knew that any small talk to fake levity would be rebuked and useless. His words were quiet; not commanding, but firm. They served to stabilize, to guide.

Ellion followed, led by the hand, now docile as the fury of his grief had washed out and left a void.

When he had arrived, Leliana had taken special point not to house Zevran in the wing of the keep normally reserved for their guests. Whether that was due to their friendship or because she was terrified he would do something to offend the nobility, Zevran was not entirely sure. He had a feeling it was a little of both… or perhaps just the latter.

Herded into Zevran’s room, Ellion reluctantly released his hand. The curtains were half drawn to keep the light, but provide privacy. A few candles were lit to make up for the sun. When he had finished, Ellion had not moved from where he had been left.

His eyes listlessly roamed the room, not taking much in. Periodically they would alight on some detail or other, usually a belonging of his lover, before they would move on. Zevran made quick work of Ellion’s gear, well familiar with all the ties and buckles of his lover’s armor. It was a pity this was not a more playful circumstance. He would have enjoyed the experience far more.

Minor sounds of protest were made as shoulder guards were taken away, tabard tugged off to allow chainmail to be removed. Left in his pants, boots, and undershirt, Ellion still had not said a true word yet. It was a familiar stage in his grief.

First was the overwhelming rage born of guilt and hurt. Then came the exhaustion that lingered into grief and quiet sadness. From there the anger would ebb and flow, but never reaching its initial heat. When at last he could move beyond that, he would submit to his depression until it bled itself dry; only then would he begin to piece a normal semblance of life back together.

Still, the familiarity did not make it any easier to watch. Later, when business was taken care of, they could share in their grief together. For now, he had a room of uncomfortable people to settle.

His fingers slipped into blond strands, tipping Ellion’s head forward for their brows to tap, noses bumping. “Rest. I will be back in a little while, _mi amor_. No one will disturb you here.”

No answer, but Zevran had not really expected one. When he left, Ellion still remained where he had been left, staring at nothing.

It was tempting to take a longer route back to the War Room, to take more time to gather his thoughts, but it was unwise to leave Leliana waiting.

When he reentered the room she was pacing anxiously by her seat. Those seated rose quickly when the door opened. There was undeniable relief on their faces when he entered alone. His smile was teasing. “Happy to see me, I take it?”

There was no laughter and he had expected none. More humor than he felt was forced onto his face. “I think you will have to reschedule your talks for another time.”

The Ambassador was the first to sit, returning to the parchment on the table. Judging by the growing neat and tidy piles she had spent the time in which he was gone going through all the reports, missives, and letters that Ellion had dumped out. They were not unfamiliar to Zevran. Many nights he had sat behind Ellion in bed, chin on his shorter lover’s shoulder as he read over it. Dexterous fingers had spent a great deal of time working out the increasing tension and knots that each new letter seemed to bring with it. He was of half a mind to burn all of the Warden’s mail before the Seneschal could give it to him.

Lips downturned, Josephine shuffled through another long winded letter. “I do not understand. Many of these names I recognize. We’ve responded to them. Many have received recompense.”

Beside her, Cullen eased back into his chair, sliding more than one letter across the table to glance over. His expression was darker than his counterpart’s. “Double dipping. They’re hoping that the Inquisition and the Wardens are not in touch after everything that’s happened and that they can get more than was given. Typical,” the last word spat out.

Standing still, the Inquisitor’s hands fidgeted with her sleeve hems. Adorable really. He had always liked the shy girls, despite the enjoyment an experienced woman could bring.

“Is he—Will the Warden Commander be alright?”

In time, Zevran knew that Ellion would recover. His love always did, but for the immediate moment it was hard to tell how long. He spread his hands. “I sent him to rest, but most likely one of your target dummies are being punched full of arrows at the moment.” He hoped the guards would not be alarmed from the arrows coming from his bedroom window.

He was answered with the deep creak of a chair and a weighted sigh. Head bowed, Blackwall’s voice was rough. “This is my fault. I… I assumed the identity of a Gray Warden. That is why I am here, to be honest. I wanted to apologize to the Warden Commander. I had lied to the Inquisition about my identity. Their use of the Warden Treaties was at my call. I was a Warden recruit, but that was years ago. I never finished the Joining ritual.”

The compulsory jovial light in Zevran’s eyes died. Sharp, deadly, he focused his attention on the heavy set man. “If I were you, I would avoid telling that to the Warden Commander any time soon.”

The Human winced, face worn with guilt and sadness. A part of Zevran wanted to feel pity, but the memory of trembling fingers laced with his own snuffed any semblance of pity out. This man was yet another weighted stone on his mate’s shoulders.

“Is he always like that?” The sound of the Seeker’s voice drew Zevran’s attention away, but Cassandra was all eyes for Leliana. “When you said he sometimes had a temper, I did not imagine that.”

All eyes turned towards the knife still imbedded deep as Cassandra gestured.

“I’ve never seen him that upset,” Leliana answered with a shake of her head. “He had a bit of a fire, but it was harmless, like I said. He might’ve shouted, but he was never violent and his words were always empty, nothing ever personal. That… That was different.”

They would want answers. How much was he willing to give?

 _Nothing. It is not their business_.

But it was, whether he desired it to be or not. He was aware of more than one curious pair of eyes following him as he eased back into his seat.

“That is because he is different.”

Leliana watched him, eyes calculating. With all the ways she had changed over the years there was some difficulty in telling where the line of her position and her friendship with Ellion would be drawn.

“Care to explain?”

A game between rogues. How much would he give, how much would she see, and how much could she get him to give?

The silence stretched out longer, a sign that a line was being made, even if he had not yet revealed to her where it had been drawn; An indication that some things would always be off limits. There was a subtle dip of her head.

With deceptive casualty, Zevran leaned back in his chair.

“While Ellion may have taken on a “Human role” in Fereldan society, at his heart he is Dalish. He views himself not as a Commander, but as a Keeper. In his mind it is his duty to oversee not only that his people do their duty, but that they are taken care of, that they are as safe and healthy as can be given their role. He sees to their moral not simply because they fight harder when happy, but because their happiness is important to him.”

A small throwing knife was slipped from his boot and twirled between his fingers. An unbreakable habit when he found himself deep in thought.

“The Sabrae Clan was, is, small. The Warden grew up surrounded by no more than twenty four people at any given time. To suddenly be in charge over several dozen and be required to attend court and such frivolities of nobility is not something he thinks on fondly. Despite his distaste for crowds, he always made a point to eat with his men and never in his rooms.”

The Warden Commander’s feelings on leadership were greeted with a quiet, “I understand that feeling”, murmured by the Inquisitor.

“He pushes himself outside of his social comfort zone because he knows it brings them assurance and comfort. To him that is most important. His Wardens are his family, in his mind.”

A hum of understanding left Cullen, his head subconsciously bobbing in agreement.

The blade in his hand twirled faster.

“Imagine your family suddenly taken with the fear that they’re all about to go insane and die. You leave for months on a fruitless hunt for a cure that’s never found and when you come home you find out that over a third of your family has given in to their fear and run. Then you hear that those they went to for help are pressuring them into blood magic rituals, be it as the sacrifices or the perpetrators of such monstrous acts. Then your family is banished from their homes. All of your letters to Weisshaupt asking about what is going on or if they’re even alive go unanswered.

“So you start writing letters directly to your people; Asking if they’re okay, if they need anything, just say something, anything, but there is no answer.”

To his left, Thom Rainier shifted, his discomfort and guilt obvious. Zevran felt a sharp burn of bitter pleasure at that. A less emotional part of him chided that the Human had nothing to do with Weisshaupt and Adamant; that he was guiltless in that, but frustration and anxiety shoved logic down.

“Those of your family that remain at home are hard pressed for supplies. There is little food and with winter coming you know that what little you can produce will soon run out. On top of that, if this fall’s early chill is any sign, the winter will be harsh. How will you keep them warm if you can barely leave the keep without the locals becoming hostile?

“So you don’t sleep, fretting over whether you retreat to the suspicious Weisshaupt, stay in Fereldan and hope the nobles and peasants’ threats of violence are empty, or strike out into the wilds to who knows where in hopes that anywhere else is better than where you are.”

The flashing twirl of the knife, tracked by than more one pair of eyes, came to a halt. A calculated distraction; keep them just distant enough from the words to not be tempted to dig further, but not deaf to the message.

“The Warden Commander is less upset that things were done without speaking him so much as that he has lost his family. He feels that he has failed not just as their Commander, but also as their Keeper. To learn that his brother in spirit has also perished is simply too much for him right now.”

“I did not desire to leave him,” Taryn spoke up quietly. “I wanted to save everyone.”

“I know, my dear,” Zevran smiled at last. “And I am sure in his heart, Ellion knows too, but the fear and the grief are too strong right now. He has the nasty habit of treating his followers like family and when they are lost…” The rogue shook his head. “The Crows taught us detachment for a reason.”

Thoughtful quiet followed, filled with the rustle of papers as his fellow Antivan mulled over the various letters. Coming out from the long contemplative pause, the Inquisitor glanced to her advisors.

“Now that Corypheus is not an issue, could we not take them in? Offer them refuge until this storm settles?”

Heavily, Cullen exhaled. “It’s not impossible, but it would be complicated. The Wardens are not a part of the Inquisition, but a force of their own. Not unlike us, to be honest. They’re an organization not bound to any one nation, but instead they are their own political force that is allowed to stay as guests in various nations. To bring them here could be seen as Warden Commander Mahariel leading beside you and not under you.

“This potentially could cause trouble with our noble supporters that are ‘at odds’ with the Wardens. They may use the ‘confusion’ as to who is leading as excuses to cause trouble or retract support.”

“It runs a risk of undermining our authority,” Cassandra added. “To banish the Wardens only to then take a group of them in? Nobles would see that as being indecisive and weak.”

“As irritating as these nobles’ letters are, it may cause strife with our supporters.” The last to speak up, Josephine sounded the most apologetic of the trio. Zevran decided he liked her best of the grim faced group.

A sound of frustration caught in the Inquisitor’s throat. “We can’t just leave them to starve. These men and women are innocent of the crime that their brothers and sisters were banished for.”

“It is possible that you could simply pardon this particular group as they were not a part of the forces at Adamant,” Leliana contributed with a thoughtful drum of her fingers.

It was encouraging to see the way Josephine perked up, a glimmer of hope on her face as she looked towards the slight Inquisitor. “It would be complicated and a bit tricky to persuade the nobles, but not impossible. As the Warden Commander stated himself, technically Ser Mahariel is the Arl of Amaranthine.”

Had he been in a better mood, Zevran would have chuckled at the use of ‘Ser’. His lover had always hated titles like that. Ranks made sense to him; Commander, Keeper, Seneschal, First, Warden, Hunter. But terms meant to fluff pride had ruffled the Dalish the wrong way; Ser, Serah, Miserre, Lady, Lord.

Caught up in pondering his lover, he nearly missed as Josephine continued. “Technically, he had a point earlier. As the Arl of Amaranthine only Queen Anora has the political right to banish Warden Commander Mahariel and his people. If the Queen voices a pardon and grants him the right to remain that would likely quiet the nobles.”

By the way Inquisitor Lavellan glanced hesitantly towards her Advisors, Zevran had a feeling this poor woman was just as lost about Human politics as Ellion. Having seen how Ellion struggled with learning the quirks of Fereldan politics, Zevran felt a flash of pity for the fellow Dalish woman. No doubt she spent an equal number of nights pulling out her hair trying to wrap her head around such a different way of life.

“How difficult would that be?” she asked tentatively.

Zevran could only assume the snort of derision that escaped Leliana was not directed at her own leader. “It was Ellion that kept Anora on the throne. The Landsmeet literally placed the right to put the new King or Queen on the throne in his hands. He could have had her executed or exiled if he chose. His Wardens have been keeping her lands as clean of Darkspawn as possible. Queen Anora owes him at very least a polite letter stating that he as the right to remain Arl. As he is one of her subjects, he has the right to petition her regarding the matter.”

Dark green eyes darted to Josephine. “Could we also send a letter expressing our wish to show compassion to the Wardens innocent of their fellows’ crime?”

Both well spoken and well mannered; Zevran knew she would settle well into her position and hold it gracefully.

“I do not see why not,” Josephine replied. “If worded appropriately it could do nothing but help, I am sure. As for these…”

The most recent source of her attention, a letter that had once been crumpled thanks to his lover, now folded smooth, was shaken. The lovely Antivan woman’s face was crinkled with disdain.

“I will go through our own records to see which of these have truly been taken care of. I am willing to help the Warden Commander sort out all of these and write… ‘appropriate’ replies to those attempting to get more than was given.”

The Inquisition’s own Commander let out a scoff.

Zevran’s nod was more relaxed than he felt. “That would be immensely appreciated, I am sure.” Judging by her emphasis on the word ‘appropriate’ Zevran had a feeling that Ellion would learn to love this woman for her ability to formulate politely worded insults that were disguised enough to be able to slide by without a nasty reply and yet get their bite across.

The quiet that stretched out this time was more relaxed. More than one set of eyes were distant as thoughts mulled and plans were formulated. There was a good deal of work to be done for more than one person in this room.

Golden eyes darted around from face to face. “Are we settled then?”

Nods were given around the table and the former Crow flashed a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Excellent. Then I shall see to our expressive Warden.”

Chair legs clunked back to the stone floor and Zevran was on his feet and moving before there was much of a chance for anyone to try to talk him into something. He felt an urgent need to return to his lover. Witnessing how Ellion had taken the news had stirred his own unsettled grief.

Halfway out the door, however, he paused.

“Ah, if you would need us to replace the table…” His head bobbed towards the knife that was still buried in the dark wood.

Taryn glanced at the weapon and made a sound of understanding. Swiftly, she shook her head.

“No, but thank you. I’ll see about having the knife removed and seeing if Smith Harritt is able to repair any damage to the blade.”

Another smile flashed; this one more honest.

“Gracias, my dear.”

And then he was out the door.

He slipped through the narrow servant passages, garnering more than a few curious stares from the workers, but he remained unbothered.

Thankfully well oiled hinges moved silently as the door to his room swung open. Inside it was dark. What few candles he had lit had been blown out and the curtains tugged so that only slivers of light remained.

Stepping inside, he shut the door as his eyes adjusted. Beneath his foot something crunched and drew him to a pause. Crouching, he picked up a fragment of clay and studied the wet trails of water on the wall by the door; A familiar sign of another wave of rage that had come and gone.

Quietly, Zevran picked up what cup fragments he could see in the dark, leaving them on the dresser to deal with later.

He took in Ellion’s curled form on the bed, seemingly asleep. It took seconds more for him to recognize the crumpled white in his mate’s hands and his lips curved with a sad smile.

Ordinarily, Zevran preferred to sleep in little to nothing; a matter of comfort. It had taken him some time to grow used to the chilly temperatures common in Ferelden barring their humid summers, but Skyhold was cold. Ridiculously cold. Why anyone would build a fort in snow capped mountains, Zevran could not fathom. As such, he frequently slept in a loose tunic and bundled himself in quilts.

Leliana had teased him about it the first morning she entered his room unannounced to find him heaped under a mountain of blankets. In dramatics he had made a point of shivering and bemoaning that it was a burden that he must bear as she insisted that he come to such a dreadfully cold place.

It appeared that Leliana was not the only one to have found his sleeping tunic. Fingers clutched at the cloth, holding it against Ellion’s chest. The Warden’s nose was buried in the fabric as he slept. Zevran’s expression softened; eyes stinging minutely as he recalled a long buried memory of a bashful confession from Ellion.

The first time Zevran had left for an extended period to lead the Crows on a merry chase when they at least realized that he was not yet dead, he had returned to find the Dalish sleeping in his clothing.

_“I, uh… Well…” the other Elf trailed off. His face turned away, attempting to hide the heat that darkened his cheeks. Arms crossed, he huffed. “It’s easier to sleep when… Your clothing smells like you. When I shut my eyes I can forget that you’re not here and… well it makes it easier to sleep. I worry about you.” Nervous eyes tentatively glanced his way, waiting to be laughed at. Instead Ellion had found himself swept into a tight embrace._

It had never ceased to amaze Zevran how deeply his mate cared for him. It was such a foreign feeling for him to be so loved. After that day Zevran always conveniently ‘forgot’ some article of clothing of his at Amaranthine when he was forced to go away.

Staring at his lover now, Zevran felt none of the familiar urge to grin and tease his lover over such an endearing pose and familiar sentimentality; instead he found his heart clenching painfully.

Silently he removed his own clothing, stripping down to only his breeches. With practiced ease he crept to the bed on silent feet and crawled in.

For a time, Zevran studied Ellion’s tanned back. Absent mindedly he mused that he enjoyed his lover’s darker skin tone. Ellion was still paler than his Antivan mate, but when they had first met Ellion had been much paler; A life outside tempered by the fact that it was spent in the shadows of the Brecilian Forest. But after over a decade of trips back and forth to Antiva, periodically out to the Anderfels, and then out west after the Calling, his skin had gained, in Zevran’s opinion, a healthier color.

Periodic scars haphazardly smattered the toned plains of his back. Zevran resisted the urge to trace them until the sensation tickled his love awake. _Not the time for that_ , his mind reminded.

Against his instinct to sweep yet another moment of grief under his rug of denial, Zevran reached out to wake Ellion. Neither of them could afford to keep avoiding it.

Under the gentle touch, Ellion started. Wide vivid green eyes glanced over a tense shoulder and Zevran made note of the wet trails down high cheek bones. With a distant, and reflexive, grim amusement, Zevran noted that his shirt was probably going to be in need of a good wash.

The calloused pad of his thumb brushed over the trails, trying to sweep them away, but only spreading the moisture.

“Shhh, mi amor. Breathe.”

Beneath the touch, Ellion flinched worryingly. A shaky breath escaped him with another set of tears. His eyes crinkled as he tried to turn away, ashamed.

But Zevran would not allow it. A gentle tut clicked against his teeth and he caught Ellion’s chin.

“No, amor. Do not hide from me. There is no reason for shame.”

In his grip Ellion’s head tried to shake, but there was no effort to speak or to pull away. With some amount of coaxing, he got Ellion to turn toward him. When the other had settled, Zevran sat up and made quick work of the Dalish styled and Warden colored boots still on his mate’s legs. Uncaring, Zevran tossed them behind him, not bothering to note where they landed. Normally such disregard for belongings would have made Ellion huff, but the other was silent.

He stayed just as quiet when Zevran lay back down and bundled him up into his arms. But the quiet was deceptive. Hands ran up and down Ellion’s back and Zevran could feel the way he shook with repressed emotion. Between them, Ellion still clutched tightly to Zevran’s shirt.

Aching with his own grief and burning at the sight of his beloved’s, Zevran buried his nose in the golden hair beneath his chin. He made no effort to note that he too trembled. Into the blonde strands he murmured, “Don’t hold it in.”

A brittle resistance was put up, but after only seconds it broke.

Heavy sobs punched out of the smaller man, wracking his body. With each hard jerk against his body Zevran felt a pang of pain.

In this quiet and private place with the only one who held his heart and complete trust, Zevran finally allowed his own grief to manifest in more than frustrated violence. His tears damped Ellion’s hair.

“Alistair’s gone.” Shaky and stuttered, the words were almost unrecognizable. “They’re all gone. Going away. Everyone is leaving me.” Sobs over took him, preventing further words.

Pained, Zevran pulled Ellion tighter against him. His own shaky hand carded through Ellion’s hair as he shook his head, unsure if his lover even felt it.

He refused to register the weakness in his own voice. “There are still so many people here; people who are close to you. Leliana, Nathaniel, Oghren, and Merrill still writes to you. I’m still here, amor.”

And yet at his last words, Ellion only choked louder on his grief. Confusion and worry thrummed through Zevran’s veins. Into his neck, Ellion shook his head.

“They’re going to take you.”

Take him? Zevran’s lips pursed. “Who?”

Several gulped breaths and Ellion tried to speak, but the words kept catching. “Th-The C—C—”

But it was enough, and Zevran felt his vision darken angrily.

Several more tries and his mate gave up with a whimper and trailed out in a pained whine. Tighter, Ellion pressed himself against Zevran as though he could join as one with the other. His fingers at last gave up clutching at Zevran’s sleep shirt to instead clutch painfully at the rogue’s skin. Zevran relished the solid feel of the biting grip.

He would not let them win. Once, he had almost done so; he had left Antiva in an attempt to end his own existence, but this shaking beautiful creature in his arms had changed all of that.

His hand left Ellion’s back, tipping the other’s chin up so their eyes could meet. Face grim with determination and sorrow, Zevren touched their foreheads together until all he could see were watery green eyes.

“They will _never_ take me from you. Nor will I let them take you from me.”

It was a pity that the noble that had taken out a contract with the Crows on the Warden Commander was already dead. Zevran would have made the death Ellion gave them seem like a blessing in comparison. There were poisons that did things worse than kill.

Muscles tensed under his fingers, trying to shake Ellion’s head, but Zevran tightened his grip, not allowing it. Harder, he pressed their foreheads together until it bordered on painful. His own eyes were desperate, but wild with conviction, near gleaming with it in the dark.

“ _I will not._ Even if I have to destroy their entire hierarchy and sit upon their guild master’s throne myself. They cannot have us.”

With equal desperation, Ellion snatched a kiss, a painful press of lips that clicked their teeth together. Zevran hardly noticed or cared. Another kiss and then another, the two of them clung to one another, fearful, as frantically they pressed kisses to one another. Lips, cheeks, foreheads, necks; whatever they could reach.

Hands roamed; stroking, rubbing, clutching, and gripping, but they were devoid of desire; Gestures to assure and to hold.

Bruises would emerge in the morning no doubt, but neither cared. At some point Zevran rolled onto his back, pulling Ellion with him. He held the other tightly on top of him, Ellion’s hands under him and digging into his shoulders. Legs were tangled and entwined uncomfortably, but they brought a security in their tightly locked pose.

Wet eyes were pressed against Zevran’s neck and he felt a chilled nose nudge up beneath his chin. Some of Ellion’s shaking appeared to ease as Zevran’s pulse thrummed against the bridge of the Dalish Elf’s nose.

Together the two let their grief run its course until they were all but spent. In the quiet dark, the pair allowed their exhaustion to take hold. Choked cries and shaky breaths eased away to silent trembles.

Hovered on the edge of consciousness, slipping into the silence of sleep, Zevran murmured, “I am here. I will always be here.”

Lips pressed to his pulse and he succumbed.

**Author's Note:**

> D: I’m sorry, Alistair. This visit shall forever be known as “That time the Warden Commander shanked a table”.


End file.
